And the young have fewer words
by tylee17
Summary: Manticore, transgenic, X5; it’s a long list. Nobody knows these words any longer. And nobody cares...- But feelings tend to last a bit longer than words... Short piece set decades after Freak Nation; no real storyline. In a way it does qualify as MA


**Acknowledgments: **

**1 **_Dark Angel_-related characters and ideas are used in the following, but no infringement is intended

**2. **bold typed lines taken from: Merwin, W. S. "Losing a Language." (1988) In: Baym, Nina et al. (eds.) _The Norton Anthology of American Literature. Volume E._ 62003

**A/N: **I'm embarrassing the hell outta myself again by daring to post something odd like this. Please pardon my weirdness, I honestly don't know what's gotten into me…

* * *

Do you still see them? Do you remember?

Their feet beating down on the asphalt, they might just now be walking down a road lying - glistening black in the rain - like an unending river in front of them. It is not quite over, yet, though darkness envelopes their drawn features as they continue on where the light cannot touch. But can you see them?

Maybe you can if you look closely enough.

The wind is cold up here, on top of the Space Needle, cold and unrelenting. Down there it won't be more than a soft caress, lightly passing them by. From up here, the whole of Seattle can be seen unfolding in the depth. The remnants of a long lost city, of long lost lives.

Down, down. Down the wind blows, falls, eventually eases as it wafts into the streets. It carries along the sound of a dog barking, whining; just another lost and lonely creature craving comfort.

A kid runs past, too young to be up this late, too young to look that raw. But they don't notice. And no one takes notice of them.

There are two of them, an old couple – ancient really, clinging to each other for support as they walk on in silence. The woman's grey hair escapes from her cap when a sudden gust of wind assails her from the side, and she fights to keep the long strands from getting drenched in the rain.

In a gesture of protection her companion pulls her close to him, wrapping his arms around her in a firm hug, pressing her tiny form to his chest in a desperate attempt to shield her from the hostile elements. She is all he has now, all he ever had. He cannot lose her, too.

Only a few of them are left now; so many are no longer there, lost already. Some a long time ago.

Pre-Pulse is merely living on as a faint memory in the eyes of the old who are slowly growing blind. No one cares about their stories anymore, no one listens when they speak.

It's a post-Pulse world now, or rather: post-post-Pulse.

**The noun for standing in mist by a haunted tree**

Lost a long time ago. Along with all those words that have defined the lone walkers once.

_Manticore, transgenic, X5_; it's a long list. Nobody knows these words any longer. And nobody cares...

**many of the things the words were about **

**no longer exist**.

But they are ingrained in the old and silent couple's memories, _they_ will never forget them as long as they live. They cling to each other, waiting for the wind to die down again, and try to ensure themselves it all _did_ exist. Manticore existed, the Xs existed, _they_ existed.

They still do. They are still here...

At least they have themselves; shared memories, even the bad ones comforting now.

Though their language may have long been lost to the world, they still speak it fluently among themselves; they no longer need to fear being overheard.

What they have been through must not simply be forgotten. The pain, the suffering, the loneliness, the fear – all the horrors they have seen and felt. Still do, for their memories are slow to die, as are their genetically-engineered bodies.

**A breath leaves the sentences and does not come back**

**yet the old still remember something that they could say**

They still remember the hardships they endured during the time of the siege, a lifetime ago. They remember being hunted down like prey, being held captive, being tortured.

Afterward.

And before.

They remember crying, alone in the dark in a cell, not calling for anyone, for no one would have come to their aid.

Always, always, they have fended for themselves. They have never truly been accepted, in spite of all their efforts, in spite of everything.

Until now, perhaps. Now that there is no one left to remember who they are. _What_ they are. Even their own are starting to die away, not many of them left. Not many to share the words with. The words that will soon be lost forever.

Soon the last Xs will die, too. They hope to find the peace they never knew in life. Eventually.

They never thought of ending it themselves. Life. They had paid for it too dearly, had learned to love what little glimpse of peace and freedom they had caught.

Many of them had died for it, for one peaceful moment, for not having to hide who they are, for not having to be wary each moment of their lives. Had they died for naught?

It had been hard to see their own die, to be left behind in a hostile world. It had been hard, too, to see their few non-transgenic friends wither and fade – those they used to call ordinaries.

But the word does not exist anymore. Not for denoting what it once did. Ordinary and transgenic, both terms vanished out of language's repertoire, the reciprocity lost.

It's like it is with day and night, two concepts only existing because of each other; take away one...

There can't be day without a night to end it, no night without a day…

**but they know now that such things are no longer believed**

**and the young have fewer words**

Ordinaries, they die so much quicker, and there is mercy in the shortness of the span of their lives. Not for their transgenic friends, those who survived the manifold attacks on their lives, who are left to witness the world starting to forget them and their past.

And they remain caught in its tangles nonetheless, no longer being able to move on, in a world not their own, caught in a post-post-Pulse hell that not even Manticore has prepared them to live through unscathed. It's been too many hells for them already. There's got to be an end.

Finally.

**this is what the words were made**

**to prophesy**

that the lost can't be found, the past not be reclaimed.

With the kids no longer taking notice, the old couple will be gone soon too, less than a memory, for no one will be left…

… to remember them.

As long as they are both still here, the woman and the man, they will live on a day or two, seeking comfort in each other's company, in the warmth of a beloved partner's touch.

But with the first failing breath – of him or her – they will both cease to exist, vanish into oblivion, carried away by the wind.

For it's like with day and night; always was and always will be:

there can't be a Max without an Alec, no Alec without Max.

**here are the extinct feathers**

**here is the rain we saw**


End file.
